Chapter XXX

Beneath the Surface

Across the mouth of Big Creek stream a long double boom cradled the large "R & P" drive. The last log had shot safely down the crooked brook and rested calmly by the side of its companions. There were thousands of them there, scarred and battered by rock and flood; worthy veterans were they, this hardy army of the forest, reposing now after their fierce, mad charge.

The work of the drivers was done, and the last peevy had been tossed with a resounding thud among its companions. A score of men were they who for months had been confined to the lonely life of the woods, and who for days had often been face to face with death. Naturally their eyes turned towards the river some distance away. There on its bank nestled the little town, and there, too, stood the Flood Gate Tavern, the most notorious place in the whole countryside. How often during the winter evenings had they talked of the many wild scenes which had been enacted there, and of the wages of months squandered in a night. Though they talked about the place and cursed it, yet, like moths singed by the candle's flame, they had returned spring after spring to the Hood Gate Tavern to spend the wages needed at home. Their money, too, was awaiting them there in the Company's office. But now they hesitated. Never before had such a thing been known. Formerly there was a rush to the town when the last log had come in.

It was evening as the men stood there, and the sun was hanging low far in the west. The yearning for the tavern was strong--it called, it appealed to them. But another power was holding these rugged drivers in check. Their hearts had been much stirred these last few days, although not one acknowledged it. A little helpless, suffering child was unconsciously restraining the brute nature within them. He was holding them in leash, binding them by strange, invisible cords. In silence they ate their supper in the rafting house near by.

"Boys," said Jake Purdy as the men sat outside smoking. "I'm goin' down town to see if there's any mail. Any of ye comin'?"

It was all that was needed, and at once every man responded. Down the road they marched, their great boots making a heavy thud as they moved along. Into the post office they tramped, and stood around while the few letters were doled out. For Jake, there was one, written by a child's trembling hand. Eagerly he opened it, and, as he read, his face underwent a remarkable change. The rugged lines softened, and when he turned to the men waiting for him, there was no gruffness in his voice.

"'Spose we git our money, lads, an' hike back," he remarked.

"Ay, ay," was the response, but in several hearts there was a keen longing to remain.

Right in front of the Company's office stood the Flood Gate Tavern. The proprietor had been expecting the drivers and was well stocked up. He saw them coming into town and watched them enter the office for their money.

"They'll be here soon, Joe," he said to his assistant, "an' mind ye don't let an opportunity slip. Them bottles must go tonight. I know there'll be lively times about here. Them d--n temperance workers are dead set agin us, an' it looks as if they'd make trouble. But we'll win out tonight, and they can go to ----. Say, here they come. Now for the time--an' money. Oh, they're jist achin' to give me their wages. They won't forgit old Ned, that's sure. Ha, ha!" and the saloon-keeper rubbed his hands with glee.

The drivers were outside the office now, and were casting furtive glances across the way. Big Jake saw the looks and knew the longing which dwelt in their hearts. He drew forth his pipe, stuck his little finger deliberately into the bowl to see how much tobacco it contained.

"Boys," he began, "have yez anything on fer the night?"

"No," came the somewhat surly response, "unless we go over there."

"Don't go," said Jake. "We've spent too much there in past years. Let's save our money fer them wot needs it at home. Let me tell ye somethin'. Comin' down the road from the boom to-night I felt like seven devils. I was jist longin' to git into that saloon an' have a big drink. But as luck 'ud have it I went into the post office first, an' found this here letter. An' who is it from, d'ye think? From me own little sick lassie at home. Look at the writin', boys. Ain't it fine? An' what a letter it is. She says she's waitin' fer me, an' counts the days until I come. Listen to these words: 'Don't go near the saloon, papa. Come straight home, an' bring the money to pay fer the farm. I pray fer you every day, papa, an' I pray fer all the men on the drive, and fer that poor little boy who got hurt.' Ain't them great words, boys?"

"Ay, ay," came the reply, and into several hearts throbbed a desire to be stronger men, and a few brushed their sleeves across their eyes.

"But that ain't all," Jake continued. "She says that little boy wot got hurt belongs to an old man--a parson--an' his beautiful daughter, who have been good to her. They didn't know where the little boy was, but when they found out they was all upsot, an' left in a hurry, but stopped in to say good-bye to my little Doris. That was two days ago, and they must be up there at Big Sam's now. Boys, let me tell ye this: Anyone who is good to my little sick lass is good to me, an' Jake Purdy isn't a man to fergit; yez know that. Now I have a suggestion to make. Instead of spendin' our hard-earned money with that old wretch, Ned, let's go up in a body to the house an' inquire fer the sick lad. We can't do nuthin', I know, but mebbe it'll please the old man an' his daughter to know that we ain't fergotten the brave little boy. An' come to think further it's no mor'n our duty. That lad saved one of us from death, an' the one that was saved, saved me. Boys, ye can do as yez like, but I'm goin' anyway."

There was no hesitation now among these men. With one accord they turned their backs upon the village, and struck along the road leading out into the country. Old Ned, the saloon-keeper, watched them in amazement. Never before had they done such a thing. What would become of all the whisky in those bottles standing on the shelves?

"The idiots!" he yelled. "What's the matter with 'em?"

Bareheaded he rushed out into the street and lifted up his voice.

"Hi! hi!" he shouted.

The drivers paused and looked around.

"Wait!" panted Ned running up to where they were standing.

"What's wrong, old man?" questioned one.

"Wrong! What's wrong with you? Why are ye leavin' without droppin' in to see me? Surely ye ain't goin' to go away without a friendly call?"

"Look here, Ned," replied Jake, acting as spokesman for the others, "we've made too many friendly calls at your place fer our own good. This year we're goin' to cut it out. So go home an' don't interfere."

Had the saloon-keeper been less excited he would have noticed the warning note in Jake's voice, and the sombre looks of the rest. They were in no mood for interruption at the present time. But Ned was blind to all this.

"Ye fools!" he roared, stamping on the ground in his rage. "Will ye let all that good stuff spile down yonder? Surely ye ain't gone an' jined the temperance gang, an' took the pledge?"

Fiercely Jake turned upon him.

"Ned," and his voice was laden with meaning, "will ye go home an' leave us alone?"

"No, h----if I will, unless ye all come back with me."

Jake's eyes turned suddenly to the right. They rested upon a pond of dirty water several feet deep lying there. Like a flash he reached out and caught the saloon-keeper in both hands, lifted him clear of the ground, carried him wriggling and cursing to the edge, and tossed him in like a ball. With a splash and a yell Ned went under, came up puffing and blowing, and dashing the water from his eyes and ears. A shout of derision went up from the drivers.

"Go home now, Ned," they cried. "You've soaked us fer years with yer stuff, an' you've got soaked now. Good-bye."

With that they continued on their way, leaving the victim to scramble out of the pond and make his way home, beaten and crestfallen.

Along the road the drivers marched, then up the hill leading to Big Sam's abode. It was dim twilight as they stood before the house. The evening was balmy, and the front door stood partly open. For a minute they hesitated, and a whispered conversation ensued.

"You go in, Jake. You've got a tongue fer sich things," suggested his companions.

But before a reply could be made there floated out upon the air a sweet voice singing an old familiar hymn. Instinctively every driver pulled off his rough hat, and bowed his shaggy head. It was a woman's voice they heard, low and tender. There was a pleading note in the singer's voice--the cry of a soul for help in trouble.

Little did Nellie realize as she sat by Dan's side this evening, and sang, that she had such attentive listeners. The past two days had been a time of much anxiety. When first she and her father had arrived, Dan did not know them. He was lying upon the bed, his little curly head resting upon the pillow as white as his own white face. Would he ever come out of that stupor? they asked each other time and time again as they sat and watched him. Often he talked, calling aloud for help, and pleading for someone to hurry. Now it was of Tony and again Nellie and Parson John. Occasionally he mentioned his father, and asked why he was so long in coming. The doctor stood by the bedside with an anxious face.

"Do you think he will recover?" Nellie asked.

"I can't say," was the reply. "He has been badly injured. But we should know soon one way or the other. This condition can't go on much longer."

It was hard for Nellie to persuade her father to take any rest. He would insist upon sitting by the bed, and holding Dan's hand.

"Poor, dear boy," he murmured. "Why did you do it? Why did you run such a risk for my sake?"

Once coming quietly into the room Nellie saw her father kneeling by the bedside. His lips were moving in silent prayer. In his heart a deep love had been formed for this little wounded lad. For months past the two had been much together, and the bond of affection had been strongly formed. At length Nellie had persuaded her father to take some rest. He had cast one long, searching look upon the boy's face, and then silently left the room. For some time Nellie sat by Dan's side watching his fitful breathing. One little hand lay outside the quilt. Would it ever work for her again? she wondered. It was a brown hand--the same hand which had reached over and drawn Tony from death. As she sat there the door was quietly pushed open, and Marion stood before her. Her eyes looked towards the bed with a questioning appeal. In her right hand she clutched a little rose. It was the first time she had been in the sick room, and on this evening while her mother was busy she had softly stolen away.

"Give dis to ittle sick boy," she said. "He like pitty woses."

"Come here, dear," Nellie replied, and as the child approached she took the flower, and placed the stem in Dan's doubled-up hand. She did it merely to please Marion, but it thrilled her own heart to behold the little maiden's sweet offering lying in that poor, nerveless fist. "God bless you, darling," she said, drawing Marion to her. "You love the sick boy, don't you?"

"Me love him," came the response, "an' me lore oo. Will Dod make him better?"

"God will do what is best, dearie. You will pray for him, won't you?"

"Me pray for him every night. Will oo sing to Dod to make him better?"

"Why do you wish me to sing?"

"When I'm sick my mamma sings to Dod. I fink He hears better dat way, an' I det better. Will oo sing?"

"If you wish me to, I will."

"Let me det in oor lap den," and Marion, climbing up, made herself perfectly at home.

Nellie was not in a singing mood this evening, but the child's words had touched her. She thought they were alone--just two, to hear. Verse after verses she sang, and as she reached the chorus of the last verse she gave a start of surprise, suddenly ceased, and looked towards the door. A number of men's voices had taken up the chorus, and they were singing, not loud, but as softly as possible:

"Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe on His gentle breast,
There by His love o'ershadowed
Sweetly my soul shall rest."

Nellie had put Marion down now, had risen to her feet, and crossed the room to the door. Almost unconsciously the drivers had joined in that chorus. They had forgotten how it would startle the sweet singer, and when they saw Nellie standing in the doorway they were much abashed. They felt like a group of schoolboys caught in some act of mischief, and they longed to get away.

As Nellie looked upon them, a bright smile illumined her face. She surmised the purpose of their visit, and it pleased her.

"Thank you for that chorus," she said, hardly knowing what else to say. "I didn't know you were here." "Pardon us, miss," Jake replied, stepping forward. "It wasn't fair of us to be standin' here listenin'. But we couldn't help it. An' when ye sang that old hymn it jist melted us down. We come to inquire about the boy. Mebbe ye'd tell us how he's gettin' along."

"There's no change as yet, that we can see," Nellie replied. "But the doctor says it must come soon one way or the other. Would you like to see him? If you come in one at a time, I don't think it will do any harm."

Without a word Jake followed her into the room, and stood with his hat in his hand looking down upon the bed.

"Poor little chap," he whispered. "Ain't it a pity?"

Hardly had he ceased speaking when Dan suddenly opened his eyes and looked about him in a dazed manner.

"Where--where's my rose?" he cried.

Nellie was by his side in an instant.

"Here, Dan," and she lifted up the flower so he could see it. "Hush now, don't speak."

Dan gave a sigh of relief. He looked wearily around, then his eyes slowly closed, and he passed into a gentle sleep. A step was heard in the room, and the doctor stood by the bed.

"When did the change take place?" he asked.

"Just now," Nellie replied in a low voice.

"It is well. The crisis is past. He must have perfect quietness. We'll pull him through now, for sure."

Jake waited to hear no more. He stole from the house, and motioned to his companions. Silently they moved away and strode back to the camp. They were rough men outwardly, this score of river drivers, but a glimpse had been seen beneath the surface. Their hearts had been stirred as never before, and they were not ashamed.